


The Wicked and the Divine

by SerChristoph



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-31 03:41:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17841773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerChristoph/pseuds/SerChristoph
Summary: Some say that the Aedra have abandoned Tamriel entirely, others know better. In their eyes, the Aedra will only reveal themsleves to those few, rare souls they deem truly worthy.





	The Wicked and the Divine

**The Wicked and the Divine**

A dark and windy night gripped the city of Markarth as it slept. The sombre flickering of torches the only light in the streets, providing the few guards with meagre vision on their sleepy patrols of the grand, stone metropolis.

A figure watched them from on high, perched atop a rocky outcrop above the waterfall, the great stream of water pounding along its course below. Heavy drops of rain pattered down on the figure’s hood, heralding the start of a storm.

As the first lash of lightning whipped down from the heavens, the figure looked to the sky, and grinned.

xxx

Fjori sighed as the rain beat down on her weary shoulders. The trek through the mountains made all the more treacherous by the rain sodden dirt and mud. The Redguard tilted her head up to the sky for a few moments, feeling the patter of raindrops on dark skin. The downpour served to wash away some of the blood and grime of battle at least.

The great stone city of Markarth loomed overhead as Fjori wound her way up the path. A mug of ale and a warm bed hanging tantalisingly close. A peel of lightning light up the mountainside for a second, the city bathed in shockingly light blue, then was instantly immersed in darkness again.

The warrior was climbing the grand stone steps when she heard it, faint at first. Bells, ringing just above and beyond the rain and the thunder. Then there were shouts, yells of surprise and finally a scream.

Running up the stairs three at a time, Fjori burst through the front gates and into the marketplace. Another streak of lightning answered her questions, the body of a guard lay in the gutter, hands grasped around his neck, the blood still seeping between his lifeless fingers.

Drawing her great sword from her back, Fjori strode deeper into the city, eyes alert for every crook and shadow. No further shouts or screams or noises of anything other than the bells and the rain. Was this forsworn, come back for a revenge long stone cold?

Gathering speed with each step, Fjori jogged up the narrow grey streets towards the grand Understone Keep, the clear target for any insurgency. Nearly slipping on the slick flagstones, Fjori swore under her breath. Her fatigue and heavy plate armour were working against her.

Reaching the foot of the Keep’s stairway, another shout rang out from behind her, clear as the thunder before turning to a gurgling quibble. Fjori spun around and looked up just in time to spot a figure tumble and fall from up above. The poor soul fell screaming, until silenced and scattered on the rocks. Fjori snapped her gaze back up, away from the horrific sight to eye a small group of figures leering down at her. A shot of lighting, three figures stood illuminated against the golden doors of the temple for a second, then, as the electricity vanished, so did they.

The Redguard cursed again for losing sight of them, an amateur’s mistake. She turned away from the Keep and charged up the path towards the Temple of Dibella. The rain picked up its pace from the heavens, cascading down the steps in earnest against the warrior.

Rounding the final corner to the temple doors, Fjori’s eyes widened at the glimpse of steel. She ducked instinctively and heard metal bite into stone behind her head. Weapon up and at the ready, she swung at her attacker with a wide arc, using momentum to make up for fatigue. The hooded figure was caught in the arm and groaned in pain as blood burst forth and mixed with the rain. Fjori didn’t hesitate, freeing her blade and deftly running the man through with several good feet of steel. The assailant gurgled his last and slipped off the blade, tumbling down the steps to his final rest.

A screech of a blade free from its scabbard, above. Fjori jumped back, blade raised just in time to parry a strike meant for her heart. A dark sword was locked with hers, just inches from her chest. She narrowed her eyes in frustration, the strength of her foe was impressive. Even without her exhaustion she would find herself struggling for purchase. The wielder of the dark blade smiled cruelly beneath their hood, the rest of the face obscured in shadow.

The pair broke contact, moving quickly to strike and parry and gain an advantage. The hooded figure was fast, almost a blur, striking this way, then that. An erratic rhythm of steel and cloth, but it was a rhythm nonetheless. Standing her ground against the onslaught, Fjori waited for the right moment, before shoving with the flat of her blade. Her opponent was caught square in the chest and fumbled backwards, unbalanced. Seizing her opportunity, Fjori reached out and swung for the kill. The attacker’s head fell to the ground before their body.

Taking the brief moment of respite to catch her breath, Fjori eyed the head at her feet, still covered by the remains of that dark hood. She deftly eased the fabric away from the face with the tip her blade and knelt to look into the eyes of her vanquished foe. She recoiled, two blood red eyes peered past her into the void, seemingly still alive. A vampire, the unnatural fangs and alabaster tinged skin confirming it.

Standing once more, Fjori returned her mind to the battle still to be fought. There were three of the figures here before, now two lay slain. One of the doors to the temple of Dibella hung slightly ajar, the rain pattering against the immaculate stone flooring.

Daring not one moment longer, Fjori jumped up to the door and pushed inside. The clamour of the bells, rain and thunder died almost immediately to the quiet confines of the temple. The light crackle of the braziers could be heard, the flames dancing in their confines. Snapping her gaze around sharply, Fjori saw nothing immediately out of place. The tables were laden with offerings and the altar sat still on the central dais. Then she noticed it, a smattering of muddy footsteps, extending into the chamber, then vanishing as if their owner had been struck from existence.

Knowing better than that, Fjori gripped her blade at the ready and slowly stepped forward, keeping her eyes keen and wary of all around her. The clacking of her boots against the stone echoed through the grand hall, obscuring any other sound that might be. She reached the foot of the altar and stopped, slowly gazing about in silence, expecting a strike from the shadows themselves. Moments of agony passed, nothing happened but the fall of more rain on the vaulted roof above. The lightning eased and the thunder grew quieter as it sluggishly moved on from the city.

Relaxing her stance a little, Fjori moved to the rear of the chamber, eager to check on the priestesses, likely hold up in the inner sanctum. She reached the grand Dwemer doors that led to the priestesses’ quarters, her gauntleted hand on the gleaming metal, she paused. The Redguard half turned her head to cast one last cursory glance at the chamber, nothing. She pushed on the door, a growing sense of urgency gripped her.

Something new, something wrong.

_Move_.

Fjori flung her head to the side, something deep within driving her. A great shriek of metal on metal exploded in her ear. Sparks flew across her face as a wicked blade lunged into the golden door and gouged its mark mere inches from her.

Fjori whipped around, a blur of a figure swooped back and away from her. Its form more shadow than man or mer. The being settled on the dais, one foot on the alter in defiance of the temple and its creed. He swept back his hood and glared with two unholy eyes that burned into the Redguard.

Reading herself, Fjori charged.

The monster did not move. When Fjori was upon him, he vanished before her eyes, an impossibly dark shadow flittered across her blade and past her. Moving on instinct, the Redguard brought her blade around swiftly, a shrieking clang rung out as her sword found his.

The shadow solidified, returning to the vampires true form. The beast snarled in unbridled rage and launched a flurry of strikes, all aimed to kill. Fjori could barely move her blade in time to defend herself, but she did. Her will to survive stronger than her fatigue.

The vampire pulled back his blade at the last second of a new assault, throwing his other hand forward. A wave of blinding pain hit Fjori and she was forced back, almost flying into the altar behind her. Forced into a huddle on the floor, Fjori could do nothing. The crackle and sear of electricity threatened to consume her, arcs of unnatural energies jolted up her bones. Her vision blurred, unfocused.

Over the cacophony of pain, she heard a deep chuckle that chilled her soul. In an instant, it stopped, the pain and the noise ceased. Fjori struggled back to her feet.

A force hit her. Fangs entered her skin. Her neck burst into acidic fire.

She blindly shoved against the beast, a guttural tearing. The side of her neck was stripped from her. A coursing burst of blood splattered the temple walls. She raised on free hand to staunch the flow. She looked up, her foe stood before her, a bloodied chunk of dark skin clenched in its maw.

The monster spat its prize onto the floor in contempt, then sauntered forward, confident of its victory. Fjori staggered back, trying to raise her blade once more. Her arm wouldn’t do it, her blood a river of fire coursing from within. Her legs bumped into the alter, she stumbled and fell to her knees. Panting hard, she bowed her head, willing any last vestiges of strength to come forth.

The vampire was almost upon her, her blood dripping from its tainted grin. The floor of this holy place plastered with her failure. The monster raised its arms, ready to strike.

With a rasping cry to the heavens, Fjori surged to her feet and thrust her blade up. The vampire looked almost confused for a moment, then its eyes glazed over. A great burst of blood burst forth from the new, deep wound that shot up from navel to collar. The beast staggered back for a second, then fell and finally was still.

The warrior fell too, dropping her sword as soon as the threat was passed. The throbbing pain and the oozing blood were too much. Already so much of her blood was littered around the hallowed hall. Feeling her life slipping away from her, Fjori gingerly turned away from the vampire’s already rotting corpse to the altar.

She used whatever purchase she could to drag herself up the dais to the base of the stone basin, leaving a swath of vibrant crimson in her wake. Reaching the edge of the still water, she rested on the edge with one arm, panting hard from her exertions, but the water was undisturbed by the force of her ragged breathing.  Feeling Oblivion upon her, she pushed herself into a kneeling position before the altar.

Shutting her eyes to the blood and the pain and all the noises outside, she prayed her last to Dibella, to ease her passing.

Silence gripped her, this was it. The end at last. A warm presence eased itself under her hand gripped around her ruined neck. All of a sudden, the pain she felt eased. She breathed slow. The presence moved from her neck, up to her cheek.

Fjori opened her eyes.

A white light, blurry and unfocused yet somehow clear all the same knelt in front of her. The shape of a woman, floating impossibly before her on the water’s surface.

“Thank you.” The light smiled, then in a blink was no more.

Fjori looked about wide eyed, eagerly searching for the light once more. Her eyes found nothing, save the blood and the corpse spoiling the floor of the temple still. Gently, she eased her hand back to her neck, it was whole. A welt of skin covered the wound, a scar of a few days old, yet skin it was and not blood or sinew.

A crack and heavy creaking whipped her attention round behind her. The great doors of the inner sanctum opened and gingerly out walked a priestess. For a surreal moment, Fjori thought the figure was the light then recognised her for Orla. The Nord woman gasped at the sight of the body and all the blood then hurried to Fjori’s side, delicately checking for wounds or pain.

Fjori stood with the priestess, finding more strength from within than she’d have believed possible. Yet still she was tired, feeling as though she’d just run the length and breadth of Skyrim. She took Orla’s hand, who led her into the inner sanctum for a rest well earned.

When she slept that night, Fjori did not dream of vampire’s or monsters, but of a light more beautiful than any in this world or the next.


End file.
